


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by deadlybride



Category: Psych
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, seriously this is so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Schmoopy fluff written on Christmas Eve, 2008. 
> 
> Originally posted to LJ.

Lassiter is honestly surprised when he arrives home late one December evening and a familiar motorcycle is blocking his driveway. He hadn't heard a word from Spencer since he'd left with autumn's beginning. As is apparently his habit, Spencer had locked up his apartment and office, stuffed a backpack with too-few changes of clothes and his passport, and gone walkabout. According to Henry, he always returns in time for Christmas, but in between… it was anyone's guess where he was or who he was with. Even Guster is left in the dark, unless Spencer happens to send one of his wildly uninformative postcards, one of those which left everyone more curious and concerned than satisfied.

Now Lassiter pauses outside his own front door, surprised to see the whole house blazing with light at ten o'clock on a Tuesday. When one is used to living alone, coming back to a warm and lively home can be almost more disconcerting than cheerful. It isn't that warmth and life are bad things, he reminds himself – only that he's so unused to them. Which is, he reflects, a fairly pathetic thought.

The door's unlocked, and he steps inside, feeling foolishly cautious. Spencer is standing in the middle of the living room, back to the door, still wearing his leather motorcycle jacket. His backpack is half-open, slung on the couch along with a few garish Hawaiian shirts and a collection of bronzed pineapple paraphernalia. Lassiter had been quiet, but he's still surprised that Spencer didn't turn at the sound of the door opening. He appears to have his hands clapped to his temples, as though he's in the middle of a vision.

Lassiter frowns at the thought, but swallows and gets past it. He's long since reconciled with himself that, while Spencer is not truly psychic, it's clear that he has abilities beyond that of the regular cops. Unbound by procedure, there's nowhere he can't go, no reason he can't talk to whomever he pleases – and his phenomenal reasoning, the intelligence he tries so hard to hide, his logical mastery all combine to make him an amazing detective. He doesn't even press Spencer about it anymore. All he would get for the trouble would be a smile and a lie, and they know each other well enough now that even the formality of protest seems unnecessary.

"Finally back?" he says.

Spencer whirls around, actually looking surprised for a half-second before his mouth splits into a goofy welcoming grin. "I was beginning to think you weren't ever going to get off work. Do you take doubles all the time when I'm gone?"

"To avoid the gaping wound of your absence?" Lassiter rolls his eyes. "Hardly."

Spencer's grin widens, as if that were possible. "I thought I'd crash some Christmas preparations, but I don't think you have even one candy cane. Where's the spirit of the season, Lassie?"

"It's awaiting retirement, when I have the time for it."

"No, come on, dude," Spencer says, grin suddenly sliding into a warmer smile. "You have to make the time."

His eyes are soft, bright, crinkling at the corners in the way they only do when he's truly delighted by something. Lassiter drops his keys to the table by the door, throws his gun into the drawer, and doesn't even notice the three steps it takes for him to cross the space between them and fold Spencer into his arms.

That wide, happy mouth opens under his as easy as breathing, and he's surprised, distantly, at the thrill of warmth that blooms in his stomach when Spencer's hands creep up to his sides, holding him close. When the roving fingers dip into his back pocket and deftly ferret out his wallet, he flinches away, making Spencer laugh into his mouth. He stretches up on his toes to plant another kiss on Lassiter's cheek, but pulls away, wiggling the wallet teasingly.

"You made me wait so long that you're paying for dinner, Lassie-face," he says, clutching it against his chest. Lassiter rolls his eyes again, but the doorbell sounds before he can retort. Spencer dodges around him, throwing open the door to a startled-looking kid in a bright red uniform.

"Perfect timing!" he says to the boy, who smiles, uncertain. Spencer gives an extra-large tip, with a goofily devilish look at Lassiter.

He carries the box to the little dining table while Lassiter goes into the kitchen to fetch a beer for himself and a Fanta for Spencer. By the time he gets to the table Spencer's already crust-deep in a slice of supreme-with-ham-and-pineapple, his personal creation. Lassiter avoids that half of the pizza, grateful that Spencer always remembers his favorite: green olive and sausage with extra sauce.

Silence descends on the table for a few seconds, until Lassiter wipes his mouth after his third bite and realizes that Spencer has already finished two slices. "You have somewhere to be?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Spencer shrugs, with a tiny grin. "I was on the road all day – haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon." Lassiter frowns. "And this is totally delicious! You sure you don't want a bite?"

Lassiter waves off the slice being dangled into his face. He's actually not sure what to do with the information Spencer has just given him – he hadn't eaten, had come straight from wherever he was… why? He supposed it was in order to be home in time for Christmas, because Guster and Henry would surely have been disappointed.

Their talk roves over a thousand different topics, as is typical with Spencer. He explains the origin of the bronze pineapples by telling of how he worked as an elf at a mall for two days, then somehow became a shampooer at a high-end salon. Lassiter's thrown, not sure how pineapple works in to either story, but Spencer has already moved on, saying he was down in Cancun for a week and a half acting as a volunteer bartender at one of the resorts.

"And guess what? I learned how Billy Ocean likes his margaritas!"

Lassiter frowns. "The 'Caribbean Queen' guy?"

"The 'Caribbean Queen' artiste, Lassie," Spencer corrects, picking a green olive off of the slice Lassiter's holding and popping it into his mouth. There's a grin playing around his lips as he chews, swallowing slowly. Lassiter drops the pizza and takes a pull from his mostly-untouched beer. Spencer's grin widens.

Lassiter's shoving the pizza box into his fridge when hands come around his waist from behind. He turns around and Spencer pushes him back, flattening his shoulders against the freezer door as he raises up for a kiss. He's got one hand on Lassiter's chest, keeping him still, but the other dips below, releasing the belt buckle and toying with the button of his slacks. It's perfect, as always, because Spencer is as amazing at this as he is at everything else.

It is amazing, but Lassiter's still standing in the chilly embrace of the refrigerator door – he lets his hands tighten on Spencer's waist, walking them backwards until they collide with the kitchen counter. Spencer puts a hand down to steady himself and something crashes to the floor. Lassiter pulls away to look but Spencer surges up, grabbing his face between two warm hands and yanking him back into the kiss. The feel of Spencer's mouth is soft, desperate, demanding in a way Lassiter remembers but has missed.

By the time they make it to Lassiter's dark bedroom, they've lost their shoes, Lassiter's tie, Spencer's belt and shirt. Spencer fetches up against the end of the bed, half-sitting on the wooden footboard while his fingers dance down the buttons of Lassiter's shirt, releasing each as easy as magic. Lassiter mouths a kiss to that spot just below Spencer's ear as he slides one hand just below his waistband, teasing the soft swell of his ass. He actually hears Spencer gulp before those clever hands take care of both their flies in a matter of seconds and he's maneuvered around, pushed down to sit on the bed. Spencer pulls off his slacks in one quick move, socks going with them. Then, suddenly, they're both naked, and the lamp on the bedside table is flicked on, and Spencer's kneeling astride his lap, kissing him hungrily.

He's not sure when this became as necessary as it now seems. It's like they were arguing bitterly one moment and the next they were thrusting, pushing, cleaving together in a hot burst of passion. What he does know is that the creature breathing harshly into his mouth, with the soft-strong hands clinging to his shoulders and arms, the smell of sweat and coconut hair product at the nape of his neck – this isn't someone he can think of as Spencer, with the distance that he maintains during the day, when he's supposed to be the manly head detective, strong and Irish-Catholic and self-reliant. Much as it once pained him to admit, this man, who blinks at him with eyes gone dazed green, whose jaw prickles, never smooth, rough under his fingers when he cups his face – this is Shawn. It's Shawn, not Spencer, who's shivering against him when he lets one hand trail down to circle a suddenly-needy erection.

"God, Lassie," says Shawn, groaning against his shoulder. "I've got to come home more often."

They drop back on the bed, Lassiter sliding them back and over, so that Shawn's under him, warm and shivering. His thighs spread, letting Lassiter lock into place, legs rising to circle his hips. One hand comes up to rest against his chest. "I missed this," Shawn whispers, into the dark space between their bodies. The breath of it is hot against his throat and he tips Shawn's chin up with two fingers, kissing him fiercely. When he rocks down, Shawn's hips twitch up to meet his. He knows if he pulls away he'll see a version of Shawn now reserved for him alone – one with eyes shut tight, face caught somewhere between joy and pain, an open wet mouth panting, waiting, gorgeous and willing. But he doesn't, because he doesn't have to. He knows that face. Instead, he reaches down to wrap both of their erections into one hand, steadying himself with the other while Shawn's clench on the back of his neck, in his hair, a needy moan bleeding out against his throat as his hips jerk again, and again. It's miraculous, better than Lassiter remembers, and he bends to suck at Shawn's throat as he strokes and thrusts, matching Shawn's rhythm easily. Finally, Shawn stiffens and cries out, the long note of his orgasm spiking gloriously against Lassiter's wet skin – it was faster than Lassiter expected, but he doesn't care, because Spencer's trembling against him, mouthing nonsense words of adoration against his collarbone, his chest, and he jerks himself once, twice, and then he's gone.

Lassiter opens his eyes much, much later to find himself naked but clean, warm under both a blanket and Shawn. A slim, tanned arm is slung over his chest, a mess of tousled, sweet-smelling hair tucked against his chin. "I didn't think you were ever gonna wake up," murmurs Shawn, voice gone quiet and scratchy, as it always does after one of his orgasms.

"It took some doing, trust me." His hand has settled on the smooth line of Shawn's waist without his intent, but he leaves it where it is, stroking the soft skin on the edge of his stomach with a lazy thumb.

A small, damp kiss presses against the side of his throat, with a sleepy mumble of content. "Thanks for making the effort, Lassie," he says. His chin is digging into Lassiter's chest, and he turns his head enough to meet Shawn's eyes. They're soft and fairly glowing with contentment. "I really did miss you, you know."

A tightness rises in Lassiter's throat. To hide it, he pulls Shawn up enough for a kiss, this one slow and lingering, and hopefully sweet enough that it'll distract him long enough for Lassiter to think of what to say.

They don't say the words, not ever. Lassiter had been worried about it, at the beginning – that Shawn would think he wasn't open enough, that he was emotionally stunted. Certainly, it wasn't that he didn't care about Shawn. It was only… that particular phrase was one Lassiter had only ever uttered to his wife, and even then only when it truly mattered: birthday, anniversary, major holidays. So he doesn't bandy emotion lightly. From his association with Henry, Lassiter suspects that Shawn hadn't exactly been encouraged to spout endearments, either.

However, without that easy crutch to rely on, Lassiter has always felt a little tentative about showing affection. Certainly, with Shawn it's easy to let actions speak louder than words (particularly when words on that clever tongue mean so little), and when they're close like this, mouths a soft tangle of warmth and comfort, words don't really feel necessary.

But when Spencer's mouth eases away from his, he misses it suddenly, as though the kiss had never happened. Spencer tucks his head back against Lassiter's shoulder and Lassiter can't help the surge of loss, of need, that spikes through him. Close as they are, he's finally able to admit, to himself at least, the truth: he has missed Shawn terribly. The months of his absence were a long, slow stretch on a rack of boredom and loneliness. He closes his eyes, absorbing the feel of weight and warmth, the comfort of deep breathing against his side, a heartbeat so close to his own. If Spencer decides to spend the night at his apartment tomorrow, or with Guster, or with Henry, Lassiter will return to this bed alone.

He'd lived alone for almost four years. In theory, he should be used to it. Suddenly, though, the very thought fills him with a kind of pained loathing and his eyes snap open, staring at the ceiling.

"Shawn?"

He gets a mumbled, "Hm?" in response. He doesn't want to stop to think, though, because he knows over-thinking has always been his enemy.

"What's today?"

Shawn shifts against his side. "Um…" He drags his left arm out from under himself to check his watch. "Well, it's 12:17, so I guess it's the twenty-third."

Lassiter swallows. "Do you want to get your Christmas present now?"

That, of course, grabs his attention, and he props himself up on one elbow, sleep clearing from his eyes. "You got me a present?" he asks, an impossible smile pulling at his mouth.

Lassiter tries to throw on an answering smile, but his muscles aren't quite cooperating. A wave of nervousness almost closes his throat but he pushes past it, nodding. "I would've never heard the end of it if I didn't," he manages. He'd thought he hid the rising tension well, but Shawn's eyes are suddenly sharp, flickering over his face. He has to say it now, before Shawn asks what's wrong, or else he'll never work up the strength to try again.

"I was just, you know, thinking." He keeps his eyes on Shawn's, because there's no point trying to hide. He'll know, just as he always does. "I'm at work so much, I never get to spend any time at home, and I've got this whole house to take care of by myself – or, no, that's not what I –"

Shawn's frowning, making him scramble to try again. "I just meant," he starts, with a deep breath, "you've been spending so many nights here, anyway, and at least half of your DVDs are on my bookshelves. I guess I thought it made sense, you know, if you want to. But you don't have – I mean, don't feel obligated. It's your choice."

Shawn's frown hasn't gone away, though it's tempered with something else by the time Lassiter finally drags back enough brain cells to cut himself off.

It's Shawn's turn to take a deep breath. "Did you just invite me to move in with you?"

His eyes are intent on Lassiter's, serious, not giving anything away. "Yes," Lassiter says. "If you want."

Shawn blinks at him. "If I want," he repeats.

Lassiter shrugs, looking away, but then there's a warm hand tugging his face back. "You're a total nutjob, Lassie-face," smiles Shawn. Lassiter holds his breath, tension unraveling as hope takes over. "Seriously, dude, did you think there was any way I could have possibly said no?"

With a shaky exhale, Lassiter finally is able to smile back – but it was a wasted effort, because suddenly Shawn's attached to his mouth, swarming over his body, two hands in his hair, immediate and ardent and warming. Lassiter holds him close, overwhelmed by the ridiculous relief blowing through him. He'd been reasonably sure of Shawn's response, but the reality of it was almost more than he could bear.

After a long, long while, Shawn inches back, holding himself barely off of Lassiter. His eyes are crinkled at the corners again, a giveaway of his mood even if he's not actively smiling. "If I want," he says again, rolling his eyes. He pushes himself over, so he can burrow into Lassiter's shoulder again. "Did you really think I would say no?"

"I don't know," Lassiter says honestly. "There was a chance."

"Maybe if you decided to blast Christian rock at every opportunity," Shawn says, speculative. Then he presses another kiss to Lassiter's chest, just above his nipple. "But, hey, I could just steal Gus' noise-canceling headphones! So, yeah, no way I could say no."

 

 

So it is that Lassiter returns from a much-truncated shift on Christmas Eve to find Spencer's motorcycle in his driveway – and a blue, shiny Yaris emanating hip dorkiness on the street in front of his house. The door is hanging half-open and he stops just outside. He knows the old adage – eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves – but he never gets the opportunity to hear how Spencer and Guster interact without the influence of observation.

"Are you serious, dude?"

"Shawn, it's basic courtesy. You don't rearrange a man's cereal without his consent."

"Gus, are you listening to yourself right now? You sound like Miss Manners on acid."

"Miss Manners would never do acid, Shawn. She's seventy years old!"

"Okay, first of all, it was a joke, and second – you actually know how old Miss Manners is?"

Lassiter frowns. Apparently the insane goofiness they parade around the police station is exactly how they act in their personal life. He shrugs, thinking it was worth a shot, but then he hears something clatter to the floor.

"Seriously, Shawn," Guster says, and Lassiter can hear that he's actually serious now, not the fake indignation he'd put on earlier. "Is this okay?"

"What, the way you folded all of my socks?"

"Shawn."

Even from outside, Lassiter can hear the concern, the meanings underneath Guster's question. To his surprise, Spencer (Shawn, he reminds himself, not Spencer anymore) actually pauses. For a moment, all Lassiter can hear is silence.

Finally, Shawn responds. "Yeah, man. It's really okay."

Lassiter's heart leaps to his throat. His voice is quiet, warm truth making the words fill up the whole world. Lassiter takes that moment to push open the door the rest of the way, announcing his presence at last.

The living room is dotted with half-empty boxes, stacks of CDs and a crate of toiletries. Shawn turns at his entrance, gifting him with an enormous grin. "Lassie! You got off early?"

"I haven't had a night off all month," he says, lingering in the doorway. "Figured the Chief wouldn't frown on an early day on Christmas Eve."

His instincts are telling him to drop his gun into its drawer and gather Shawn into his arms to kiss him senseless – but Guster's standing not three feet away from Shawn, mild discomfort registering on his face before he realizes Lassiter's looking at him and a smile and nod wipe away the look.

"I blackmailed Gus into helping me drive my stuff over here," Shawn says, with a respectful nod to his best friend.

"Only because you're too much of a baby to borrow your dad's truck," Guster snaps back.

Shawn doesn't bother to deny it, grinning. "Hey, any time you want me to tell that story to Maria at your office, just say the word."

Guster's eyes go terrified for a second before he straightens, picking his suit jacket off of the back of one of Lassiter's chairs and shrugging it on. "Whatever, Shawn," he says, broadcasting 'unruffled.' "Should I tell my mom to set a place for dinner tomorrow?" he adds.

Shawn's eyes flick over to Lassiter for half a second before he grins, flopping down onto the couch. "Better not," he says. "Don’t want to freak out your parents again."

He was aiming for casual, but Guster looks over at Lassiter as well before saying, "All right. Talk to you later."

Lassiter stands aside when Guster goes to leave, holding the door open, but Guster stops in front of him, holding out his hand. Lassiter takes it, slowly. "Merry Christmas, Lassiter," Guster says, with a firm shake.

His look is obvious, intent clear: He's my best friend, and I know where you live.

"Merry Christmas, Guster," he responds. He watches him go before closing the door. When he turns around, Shawn's standing, leaning one hip against the couch arm.

"That was cool," he says. "Never had Gus try to intimidate someone for me before."

"I didn't think he had it in him," Lassiter says. Shawn grins, a little crookedly.

"He's never had a reason to before," he explains. "I've never liked someone enough before where it'd matter if it broke off."

His smile is perfect, heartbreaking, and suddenly there's no reason why Lassiter can't follow up on his plan from earlier.

 

 

Much later, they're laying on the couch. Lassiter's half-drowsing, idly luxuriating in the way Shawn's fingers comb through his hair, making it stand on end and then smoothing it down again. He thinks he might get a terrible crick in his neck the next morning, but can't really be bothered to move.

Finally, Shawn stirs, his fingers leaving Lassiter's hair to tap on his chin. "Hey, you in there?"

"What?" he says, not opening his eyes.

"I've got a big fat important announcement to make, that's what."

That makes his eyes fly open. He tries to struggle up, but Shawn grabs him, keeps him close.

"What is it?" he says, trying to quash a tiny, irrational thrill of fear.

"It's midnight," Shawn says. "And I love you."

Lassiter goes still. Shawn shrugs, an odd motion for someone laying on their side. A tiny smile plays at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are quiet, soft.

Lassiter swallows, eyes wide. "I…"

Even then, he can't finish it. He's furious with himself, but his heart is already flayed open, bare, his entire self right there for the taking. He tries to force it out, but then Shawn's smile spreads, sweeter than he's ever seen it.

"I know, Lassie," he says.

His hands come up, cupping Lassiter's jaw. Lassiter lets his hands settle onto his waist as they lean in. It's their first kiss of Christmas and, somehow, it feels even more powerful than the others, new, vibrating with joy and pure, unadulterated happiness.

"Merry Christmas," Shawn whispers, fingers curling into Lassiter's shirt.

Lassiter kisses the top of his head.

"Merry Christmas, Shawn."


End file.
